


Woody

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sam, Case Fic, First Time, Impala Sex, M/M, Magic-Assisted Sex, Magical Artifacts, Mirror Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Play, Porn With Plot, Porn with Jokes, Post-Season/Series 12, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2017, Top Dean, Witch Sam, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 17:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12776220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: No movement in Sam’s grip.Just, spit it out, Sam. Dean’ll believe him, won’t even flinch.The wand is alive. Or… Dean’ll think Sam’s hallucinating again, or doing his psychic crap, or…“You’re right.” Sam chucks it back in the box. He oughta find out more before he brings Dean into this. And besides, “You sure that shower’s too small?” Dean’s tongue runs out. “Cause-uh. I could use some help cleaning up…”Dean drops his towel.





	1. Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> My dear artist **[sakurinn](https://sakurinn.tumblr.com/post/167708397437/heres-my-art-entry-for-the-spn-reverse-bang-2017/)** , thank you so much for your beautiful work, cheerleading and enthusiasm. You’ve been a total joy! ^_^ As always, my love to **[crowroad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crowroad)** , beta and bestie. Messiness is all mine. Thanks to the **[SPN Reversebang](https://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/)** mods for being supportive, efficient, and all around awesome. And finally, here’s to Mini the cat, the most lovable asshole/inspiration.

Sam stresses when Dean drives angry. White knuckles, ten and two. Grips and re-grips. Left hand, right.

Sam picks his nails. “I think we have to assume—look. Cas disappeared, same time as Jack.”

“Yeah, looks like.”

“And they had a, a thing… Jack trusted Cas. From the womb.”

“Well that’s a mistake.” Dean’s eyes flick up. “You’ll find out, Jackie-boy! Got yourself a super-powered toddler, if you—” he pounds the wheel. “Shit. Sorry, Baby.” Gentle fingers.

Sam gets swamped with the old— _love, family, whatever-it-is_ —gets caught.

Dean double-takes, shimmer of tongue. “You know what?” Head tilt, pouty mouth. “Gimme ‘The Best Of,’ huh?”

“Seriously.” Sam goes for the box.

“Cas made his choices.” Dean pops the tape. “And one way or another he’s gone.” Drums the dial. “I think we have to assume…” Power on. “We’re all we got now.” Volume up.

 

*

Sam’s desk looks like beer-can Jenga. Luigi’s pizza box—four crusts, circle of grease—gapes from the floor. Shoulders and ankles nudge, drunk-watching Cas’s Netflix.

Sam goads. “You’re telling me you would _not_ fuck Dr. Sexy.”

“I’m telling you it’s not relevant, because he’s pretend.”

“You’re the one brought up the, ‘sexy-but-naïve intern’ you’d like to… what was it?”

“Shut up.” Hips rake him when Dean grabs another round.

“Fine, fine then. Who would you?”

“What, go gay for?” Beer cans crack.

“Yeah.”

“Sam, this is stupid.”

“Or did you? I always wondered if ‘anything-once’ meant—”

“Wow. I did not, if it’s any of your—”

“Who’re you holding out for, Dean?” Sam elbows.

Dean runs through a half-dozen mugs before his face drops, tongue runs out. “Just you.”

Sam freezes.

“Look.” Dean shrinks back. “You asked.”

 “Wait.” Sam grabs. Laces their fingers. “Why don’t we try it?”

“Try it.” Dean doesn’t pull away.

“I mean, go slow,” scarred knuckles to his lips, “be smart…”

Flat voice, “You wanna date.” But Dean breathes faster.

“Yeah.” Sam searches his brother’s face.

“Aww, don’t gimme the eyes.”

“If you’re right,” Sam swallows. “If we’re all we’ve got…”

“Nobody left to get mad, is there?” Strangled.

Sam prays, just in case. _Cas, if you can hear me…_ Dean chin-tips. Sam tastes. Humming, soft like it hurts. “We’ll be okay, Dean.”

Clenched jaw says he doesn’t believe, “Yeah.”

 

*

Sam finds a stack of texts on nephilim. Shame his Hebrew is… nonexistent.

“Tell me you have something.” Dean, rocking spectacular bed-head, drops a mug next to Sam’s notes.

“I have three Second Century scrolls, but.” Coffee scalds, tastes terrific. “By the time the Christians got ahold of this stuff…”

“Telephone game.” Dean flops in a chair. Sock-feet probe around, toes graze Sam’s ankle.

“Yup.” Sam ankles back.

Flash of an eyebrow. “Wellll, by the time the Internet gets ahold of it, most nephilim lore comes from, wait for it—” Dean points. “The _Supernatural_ roleplaying game.”

Sam splutters.

“…based off that one Cas ganked helping Metatron.”

“How do they even know about that?”

“Y’got me.” Dean shrugs. “I thought the whole, prophet machine was shut down, but…” He rubs his eyes. “Maybe Chuck mojo’d some schmuck.”

“Or somebody published Metatron.”

“Yikes.” Dean fakes a shudder.

“Rest of this stuff’s in Hebrew, so…”

“Find a translator, I guess.”

“Looks like.”

“Meantime, I guess we’ve got squat on Jack.” Dean makes the I’m-cute smirk.

“If you want to put it colorfully.” Sam opens his laptop. “I dunno about you, but I could—”

“Get outta here?” Dean springs up, circles Sam. “God, yes. Tell me you got something.” Behind his chair, cheek-to-cheek like a thousand times.

“Yeah, uh.” Sam nestles, a little. “Text from a blocked line, series of numbers. When I ran them as coordinates…” Stubble scrapes. “It’s that Letters’ chapter house we hunted in St. Louis.”

“So it’s our kinda thing.” Dean stands. Palm drags Sam’s shoulder.

“For sure.”

“Garage in ten?” Quick squeeze.

Sam sits up straighter. “You’re on.”

 

*

Sun rises and Kansas crops spread out ahead of them.

Dean’s jaw sits tight. “You got no idea who sent you that text.”

Sam bristles. “I can’t figure a way to trace it, no.”

“So it’s clearly a trap.”

“Typically.”

“Some shit never changes…” Smack of Dean’s hand, Sam’s thigh. Tickle when he draws back.

They hit the city before dusk.

Dean asks, “You wanna check it out now or wait til it gets dark?”

“I say we go now.”

“Just, march up to the door.”

“We don’t have to be brazen about it.” Sam counts fingers. “One, we don’t know what’s in there, and the sun is our friend. Two, I checked the place out, and it’s still abandoned.”

“Great. What are the odds we find squatters in there?”

“I think that’s a best-case.”

Dean rolls eyes in agreement.

 

*

Sam counts houses while Dean creeps up the alleyway.

“This one. Right here.”

Dean angles between the trees and they check that the coast’s clear. House looks good, considering. Dusty first floor echoes hollow. Looks like some of the copper’s stripped.

“Last time shit went down it was in the basement.” Dean slots his gun behind the door, swings it slow. Faltering light greens up Dean’s eyes, reds up his hair. Knees bent, arms taut. “Same as before.” Annnd Dean sneezes. “Moldier, maybe.”

Sam lets out a chuckle and down they go. Steps creak and the bannister sways. Temperature drops. “If I remember right, the room with the cursed box was…” Sam pulls the string for a naked bulb. Shadows settle in spiderweb corners. “Huh.” New wall of cinderblocks across the old, busted-out hole.

Dean aims his light. “No tracks or hinges.”

Sam strikes a match. “No draft.”

“You wanna poke at this some more or go check out the top floor?”

“What, like, split up?”

Dean bristles. “Ah, you know? I kinda wanna stick together on this. Given the givens.” Light flicks across the wall, and—

“Wait. Go back.” Images, scored into the blocks. “What… even is that?”

“Grab us a pencil and paper, geek-boy. See if we can—”

“Get a rubbing, good—”

Dean snickers. “Get a rubbing.”

Sam serves up side-eye. Runs a finger across the carvings, three crude sketches. Suddenly, “I know what to do,” and he draws a knife, slices his palm, and touches—

The wall vanishes. Sam steps through.

“Sammy! Sam!”

“Dude,” but Sam’s feet won’t budge. He twists.

Dean bangs—looks like a window from Sam’s side. Pulls out a blade, smears blood… and hits the deck.

“Dean!” Sam fights the enchantment. Green fog springs from the floor. Climbs, swirls and coalesces…

“Samuel Winchester.” Rowena.

Sam should’ve guessed.

“I bequeath you my Book of Shadows, and a sundry lot o’magical oddments.” She folds her arms. “I’ll have no other witch lay a hand upon it, but you…” Toss of her hair. “Yours is the only blood could’ve broken that seal, y’should know.”

Sam looks back. Dean’s still on the floor.

“If your brother tried, he’s unconscious now. Anyone else will be dead.”

Sam swallows.

“You must gain control of your blood, Samuel,” Rowena goes on. “Your power…” smooths her skirt. “I’ve no’enough time. Take your inheritance; hide it away if you must.” She bends down, something unseen in her grip. “Though I’d prefer you to put my estate to destroying Fergus, if he’s still alive.” Rowena’s fog dissipates and leaves behind a warded chest. Flanking it, a random assortment of herbs, scrolls, vessels.

Sam breaks free. Drops to his knees and grabs for his brother. “Dean!” Sam pats his face, listens for breathing.

“What?!” Sleepy, cranky, eyes peel open. “Sam, what the hell, man?” Dean swats Sam back. “Chargin a sigil you don’t know, are you outta your mind?” Fingers across his forehead.

“So, I guess you’re all right…”

“Hangover of all time, but—” Dean sits up. “What happened?” No trace of the magic wall.

“Rowena.” Sam grimaces.

Dean flops back to the floor.

“She’s dead, apparently.” Sam cocks his head. “Left me an inheritance.”

“Well, we’re gonna inherit that shit straight to a warded storeroom.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Sam sticks out a hand and hauls Dean up.

Takes all of thirty minutes to load Rowena’s stash in a moving box, ward it with Sharpies and clear out.

“Done and done.” Dean slams the trunk. “Let’s get us some dinner and digs for the night, huh?” Palms circle Sam’s ribs. “You ever been to Blues Barbecue?”

 

*

Clack of pool balls and raucous laughter. Steaming plates of garlic toast, losing a fight with an onslaught of meat.

“Lemme try that turkey.” Dean stabs, swipes a juicy forkload.

“Hey!” Kick under the table.

Dean grapples his sandwich. Joker’s smile of hot sauce, watery eyes— _gimme the volcano, sweetheart_. Sucks down a half a mug of beer and burps to the gods. Then wipes his face. Grins, “Like whatcha see, huh?” Blows a kiss.

Sam acknowledges his slack-jawed stare could be taken a lot of ways. “Eat me.”

“Oh, you’re next.” Dean winks. “Spicy barbecue.” Tongue rakes his teeth.

Sam should’ve worn looser jeans.

“…businessmen here.” Still talking. “You wanna, con a few soccer-dads outta their stripper money?” Dean’s toes hook Sam’s calf. “It’ll be fun…”

“Yeah, all right,” Sam folds. No chance he could turn down that smile.

 

*

Dean weaves between tables and Sam posts up at the bar. Low-hung lamps block his brother’s face, highlight Dean’s broad shoulders, sculpted arms. Ever since Sam was tall enough to plausibly sit at a bar…

“Club soda with lime.”

Pretty bartender pouts. “Aw. Designated driver?”

“Fraid so.”

“Wellll, if you need a sober sister, come talk to me.” Red nails outstretch. “Danni.”

Sam shakes.

Delicate fingers push his drink.

Dean blankets him from behind. “I got that.” Nose at his temple.

Sam freezes.

“One dollar.” Danni oversells the cheerful.

“One—babe. What did you order?” Dean’s arm slips around him.

Sam reins in his freakout.

Dean sniffs. “Soda?” And to Danni, “Tell you what, sweetheart. Bring us two, double”—he looks at Sam— “Makers?”

Sam nods.

“Neat. And-uhh… I’ll have a Mad Buck.”

Danni ducks her head and goes for the booze.

“I’m gonna go shoot some pool. Win us some fun money.”

Sam sticks with the nodding.

“You can come be my good luck charm, or stay right here and drink on my tab. Hell, come play if you’ve got the moves.”

Sam unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Dean. I don’t…”

Head tilts. Hint of a grin.

 _This is his date game_. Sam blushes. Thrust into the role of civilian girl, he guesses, “I’ll watch.”

Dean squints.

“Maybe, jump in later?”

“Attaboy.” Dean pulls Sam tight against him.

 

*

So, it’s the standard _brothers_ con in practice, except—

“It’s our first date. M’tryin to impress him.”

—there’s a lot more touching.

“Pretty much grew up together.” Hand on Sam’s elbow.

And a lot more questions.

“I dunno what took us so long.” Arm around his waist.

And surprisingly less lying.

“Guess we just had to… deal with our demons first.” Grin and a wink.

They win a few hundred bucks, minus drinks for the vanquished. Cash out and call it an early night.

 

*

Two beds.

“Don’t doodie-face me,” Dean pre-emptive strikes. “I didn’t wanna assume. I’m a gentleman.”

Sam’s head whips around.

“Furthermore…” Dean grabs Sam’s collar and kisses him blind. Sam slumps into the dresser and Dean breathes in his ear, “We wreck one bed, sleep in the other. Huh?”

“You’re pretty confident…”

“First date,” Dean rumbles. Curls hands around Sam’s sides. “Y’oughta at least give up second base.” Fingers at Sam’s shoulders and his overshirt heaps at his wrists. Dean strokes up Sam’s neck, combs through his hair and thumbs his jaw.

Sam grips at the dresser behind him. Hooks a leg and pulls Dean tight. Mouths crash. Dean gropes under Sam’s t-shirt. Sam gets his hands free, mauls his brother. Plunges his tongue in, tilts Dean’s head to get deeper. Dean growls, nails rake Sam’s back as he’s stripped to the skin.

Dean hauls him by the belt loops. Sweeps a leg and they tumble to bed. Dean swings over and kisses Sam, merciless. Mouth, eyes, temples. Tender skin under his ear, clear down to his shoulder. Sam squirms and Dean’s hard, grinds through their pants.

“Time was, I coulda come just like this.” Dean licks along Sam’s collarbone.

Time was, Sam coulda come just thinking about Dean like this. Soft pink shiny lips drag down his chest, goosebump wake.

“You like your titties played with?” Dean shifts. Sam’s left humping the air. “Easy, big boy.” Dean pins his hips. Sam moans; heat drowns his nipple. Dean tugs with his lips, flicks with his tongue.

Sam bucks. Claws at his hair and grips Dean’s shoulders.

“Yeah, I knew you liked it.” Dean smirks, lights Sam up. Gets to work kissing Sam’s dry nipple. Teeth sting. Sweat pools. Dean fingers over Sam’s abs, feathers his hip ridge. Hums. “Bout to bust right outta them jeans.” Dean hesitates at Sam’s belt. “You wanna come tonight?”

Sam pulses up into Dean’s hand. “God yes.”

Dean has Sam’s dick out in heartbeats.

“Show me.” Dean flips, props his back against the headboard. Totally dressed, the fucker, pats between his legs.

Sam goes, though he doesn’t get it until he’s against Dean, back-to-chest. Pants shoved to his thighs, hard-on in hand and facing the dresser…

Facing the mirror.

Dean ghosts his ribs, thumbs over his nipples. “Touch yourself, Sammy, lemme see.” Pinches, pulls and Sam’s head falls back. Dean breathes in his ear as Sam strokes, spreads precome. Sam twists, snags Dean’s lip in his teeth and makes him shake. Dean tongue-fucks, pets down his sides. Rough hand around Sam’s, urges him on. Fast and steady takes him over.

Kiss at his temple. “You’re so hot, little brother—”

And Sam’s eyes slam. He yells, shoots up his belly.

“Aw, God, Sammy.” Kisses around in his hair. Fondles and rubs until Sam…

“Dean, you have to…” Sits up, panting. Chest shines, hair everywhere. Dean’s dark fingers and Sam’s pale thighs. Wavy in the cheap glass.

Dean pats Sam’s back. “Shower time.” Joints crack as he rolls out. “Too small to share, but when I get you home…” Dean wiggles out of his pants, striptease not-quite nonchalant.

Sam scoots up. “Dean, wait.”

Bathroom latch clicks. Water screams through the pipes. Sam’s head thumps the wall.

Rowena’s stash thumps back.

Sam straightens. Pulls his pants up.

_tap-tap-tap_

Red alert.

_tap-THUMP_

Sam eases open the weapons bag.

_THUMP THUMP_

Feels around for his Taurus and a vial of salt. Silently he pads to the box, gun barrel under the flap…

Rumbling, and it blasts open. Carved stick of age-dark wood flies out, trembles. Mist trails from its narrow end and Sam steels for a fight. Rowena’s wand floats up to his face and—he gets the strangest impression of sniffing? Sam grabs but the wand darts loose. Zips from one end of the room to the other, pauses to bop his nose.

“Hey!” Sam swipes and misses.

Now he swears it’s laughing. Magic wand sinks to the floor. Nuzzles around Sam’s pant leg like a needy cat. Sam bends down, delicately takes the handle…

Annnd it smacks him in the face. Dances around his head, pokes at his ears, flicks up his hair. Sam swats, tries to defend himself, but the wand is relentless. Tickles his armpits, raps his knuckles.

Dean’s shower shuts off and the wand hits the floor. Sam seizes it.

Dean steps out, towel at his waist and dripping. “Dude, don’t mess with that thing. You gotta figure ninety-nine-nine of this shit’s cursed.”

No movement in Sam’s grip. _Just, spit it out_ , _Sam_. Dean’ll believe him, won’t even flinch. _The wand is alive._ Or… Dean’ll think Sam’s hallucinating again, or doing his psychic crap, or…

“You’re right.” Sam chucks it back in the box. He oughta find out more before he brings Dean into this. And besides, “You sure that shower’s too small?” Dean flashes tongue. “Cause-uh. I could use some help cleaning up…”

Dean drops his towel.

 

*

Pale morning light shines off parked cars at the Gas-n-Sip. Sam squints, carries their breakfast from a McDonald’s across the lot.

_tap-tap-tap_

Sam darts his eyes. Alone at the pump.

_tap-THUMP_

From the trunk.

_THUMP THUMP_

Sam sets their McMuffins on the seat.

_tap-tap-tap_

Pulls the release.

_tap-THUMP_

He creeps around…

_THUMP THUMP_

And from Sam’s six, “No freakin pie!” Dean stomps to the car, juggling drinks and snacks and a gallon of wiper fluid.

“Hey, have you—”

“What kinda shitshow runs outta pie at ten in the morning?”

“Uh…”

“It’s un-American. It’s unnatural is what it is.”

Sam blinks. “Uhh, sure.”

Dean joins him by the trunk, trails fingers down his back. “I gotta tell ya, man. I’ma feel a whole lot better once this crap’s on lockdown.”

Silence from the box. “You have no idea.”

Five hundred miles of Dean’s grins, smack-tickles, and eyebrow arches and Sam forgets all about the stupid wand.


	2. Revelation

Dean sets down bags and pins Sam inside the door. “I’ll tell you what,” soft smacks of lips. “You get Rowena’s crap from the car. I’ll fix dinner.”

Sam grins into his brother’s mouth. “Sounds like a plan.”

Dean saunters off, winks over his shoulder. Ass sways under his bunched-up shirt. Sam heads for the car and stops in his tracks.

_tap-tap-tap_

Sam slumps. Takes a breath and pops the trunk.

_tap-THUMP_

“Yeah, yeah…”

_THUMP THUMP_

Cross-folded flaps punch up as Rowena’s box bumps across the false bottom. Bunker door clicks open and it falls still.

“Hey, you want chicken or shrimp pasta?” Dean pops his head out.

Sam wheels. “Uh… Chicken.”

“You got it.”

“Wait!”

Dean shoots him a look.

“I mean… hang on a second.” He hoists the box. “Get the door for me.”

Suspicious squint but Dean goes along. Sam shadows him until Dean turns for the kitchen. Counts how many paces until…

_tap-tap-tap_

As soon as he can’t hear Dean’s pots and pans anymore. Sam sighs. Can’t toss it in a storeroom. Manic magic wand run amok amongst the artifacts? Terrifying. Sam heads for the dungeon. Figures there, at least, it can’t unleash any curses.

 

*

Watching Dean eat tweaks something in Sam, down deep. It’s gross, objectively: Orange-brown Cajun alfredo coats his lips, slides down his chin. Dean’s tongue snakes out to collect the mess, which mostly just smears it around. Eyes blink and water and roll back. Dean moans around his mouthful and Sam’s gut clenches.

“You wanna be alone with that plate?”

“You love it.” Dean winks. Captures a long, lone strand of linguine. Sucks one end in his mouth and offers up his fork.

“You are fucking kidding me.”

“Aww, c’mon.” Noodle paints a trail as it drops. “Them eyes, that hair. You’re the perfect Lady.”

“You realize that makes you the Tramp.”

Dean shrugs. “No shame in my game, man.” He licks his teeth and ducks his head, reacquires his target. “Mmm?” he pouts.

Sam rolls his eyes but he gives in. Takes the fork and gets his mouth around the strand. Dean lifts, leans across the table and closes the gap. Sam almost fucks up, shaking his head and fighting a laugh. “You’re ridiculous,” he says against Dean’s mouth.

Dean smacks when he chews. “And you’re delicious.”

Pasta’s cold and they’re both alfredoed nose-to-chin by the end of the kiss. Damn and if Dean ain’t right about cayenne. Sam’s lips burn on like, five different levels. Dean grunts, look of surprise-on-fire when Sam shoves, plants Dean back in his seat and rounds the table.

Dean gets hard against Sam’s hands while he works. Belt, button, zip. Dean hoists up and wiggles, helps Sam strip him to the ankles. Settles against the wall.

Sam kneels. “How do you like it, Dean?” Licks up the underside, swirls at the tip, dips in the slit. Sweat-salty-sharp and his mouth floods.

“No such thing as bad head—” breaks to a groan as Sam takes half in one go. Jaws stretch, lips cover his teeth. Hint of suction, up and down. “Holy shit, Sam—” rolls his tongue. Shoves Dean’s knees apart and curls his hand around. Thighs quake against Sam’s shoulders; Dean fights, stuttery thrusts.

Sam gulps, spit and precome, backs off just enough to breathe. “Okay?” Sloppy drunk in a frat house fifteen years ago—not much for practice.

Dean curls toward him, palms his jaws. Thumbs trace his bones. “Sammy, you’re…” Dean’s eyes close, cheeks puff. Lips flushed obscene and lashes clumped. Bright sparks. Pleasure, adoration, burn Sam up like angel grace.

Sam inhales and dives, laps at the loose skin of Dean’s balls. Sucks and his hips pitch, spit smears Sam’s face.

Dean grabs his arms, hauls up. Back flat on the table and jeans just—gone. Dean steps in, shoves between his knees, hand-combs his hair and bites his shoulder. Cocks bump-rub and sweat collects. Sam’s throat, Dean’s top lip.

“Come with me, Sammy, come on,” and Dean’s hand, callus and busted-knuckle rough.

Sam lasts oh-point-nothin. All the years and meals shared here and Dean’s bitch-moan about _Shame we can’t bring home one-night wonders, ain’t it?_ Dean’s heat, weight above him. Breath in his ear, short hair in his nose. Sam convulses, roars Dean’s name and he couldn’t say who shoots first, hot and sticky up his shirt.

Quiet, Dean retreats. Offers a hand, heaves Sam to his feet and into a kiss.

“Coulda sworn you said somethin about a shower when we got home,” Sam taunts.

Not a word. Dean hoists his jeans, spins on a heel, and marches out. Pause, in the doorway, tilted head. “Come on, Lady.”

“I will stab you.”

“Countin on it.” Dean winks.

Sam about passes out.

 

*

Sam’s head flops on his desk, fortress of books and papers. Rowena’s notes gave up zilch on a magic-wand-turned-asshole-cat—let alone a spell to bind it.

_tap-tap-tap_

Sam jerks upright.

_tap-THUMP_

From the vent above his bookshelf.

_THUMP THUMP_

“Dammit,” Sam sighs. Grabs his phone, pulls up the flashlight. Climbs on a chair…

Footsteps in the hall, a metallic clatter.

Dean catches him stepping down. “Everything cool?”

“Yeah, uh…” Sam’s face heats. “I-uh, heard a weird noise in the vent.”

“I know, right? HVAC’s been fucked up ever since the Duke of Douche tried to suffocate us in here. I’ll take a look.”

“No!”

Dean squints.

“I mean, it’s probably nothing. Just… the ducts expanding or whatever.”

Brows scrunch, but, “Okay, dude.” Dean nods at the desk. “Whatcha workin on?” Palm warms Sam’s back.

Sam equivocates. “Just-ahh, making sure Rowena’s souvenirs are contained.”

“Smart. I got a bunch of stuff on curse boxes, from Bobby’s stash. I’ll go grab it.”

“Dean, you don’t…” but he’s already gone.

_tap-tap-tap_

Sam climbs back on the chair.

_tap-THUMP_

He shines his light.

_THUMP THUMP_

“You piece of—” Damned wand shoots out. Circles the room, tap-thumping the walls, the tables. Pauses to swat Sam’s clock off the nightstand, topple some books off his desk. Sam tugs his hair. “What do you want?”

It zooms at Sam, pops him on the nose, and—Sam squints—comes to rest on Rowena’s Book of Shadows.

“Hey-uh,” Dean sets a mold-stained crate on the floor. “I gotta make a supply run. You need anything?”

Sam mutters, “Saucer of milk, maybe.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” Sam kisses Dean, arms around his waist. “Grab me some yogurt, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean touches his lips. “Health freak.”

“Heart attack.”

Dean grins. “Hold the fort, Sammy. Text me if you think of somethin.”

“Will do.” Sam clears away his useless research. Bobby’s crate holds folders, books, loose pictures of sigils and spellwork…

_tap-tap-tap_

Sam starts unpacking.

 

*

Three days. Three days of smacking his face, spilling his drinks, and dancing on laptop keys… plus with the _tap-tap-tap_ at all hours…

Anyway, Sam thinks he’s cracked it. Beeswax candle, knotweed, seven sigils carved in a black locust box. “ _Intra confinia omnes tacere…_ ”

And, from under his bed, a ripping sound.

He needs a more lasting solution than duct tape.

Rowena’s wand snaps up, trembling. Mist wafts off its end. Temperature drops probably ten degrees and goosebumps race Sam’s back. Rustling noises, files and papers shift. Rise from their scattered spots and swarm, cyclone.

“That’s it!” Sam loses his shit. “You get your ass over here now!” Eyes pop as the wand… obeys. Papers and folders still fly overhead but the wand waits—expectantly? He reaches out, and for once, it doesn’t flee. “Knock this shit off.”

Everything drops. Pages flutter around him, cover the floor. Clearly he should’ve been more specific. Take him a month if he’s lucky to—

Longshot: “No, put it back where you found it.”

To his amazement, all his notes catch air again. Folders fly and fill themselves, Pac-Man errant sheets across the room. Photos stack and scrolls spool up. Sam’s caught in the moment.

“Sammy?”

In his hand, the wand falls still. Gravity reasserts.

Dean’s footsteps. “Dude, what the hell?”

Papers drift.

Mist swirls.

Sam surrenders. “You were right; this thing is cursed.”

Dean tees up an _I-told-you-so_ , but Sam plows on.

“I tried binding it, cleansing it, hell even breaking the fucker, but… every time you leave the room, or, the car, or, wherever, it… I dunno. Kinda comes to life?”

“What, like the frog in that one Bugs Bunny?”

Sam should’ve thought of that. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Dean flops on the bed, no regard for the crushed notes under him. “Thank, fuck.”

Sam spins in his chair. “Come again?”

“Mannn, you been actin weird for days.” Forearm covers his eyes. “I kinda thought… I mean, I wondered… if…”

“It was about you?”

Dean shrugs. Five-second silence, then, “That little disco stick make this mess?”

“Did you just quote Lady Gaga to me?”

“No…” Dean’s shoulders hitch. “What does it do?”

“Mostly makes noise and knocks things over. When it’s not going all Three Stooges on me.”

“Seriously.” Papers crackle as Dean sits up, stifled grin.

“It’s not funny.”

Dean shows palms.

“You’re not pissed?”

“Eh… Wish you’da told me.”

Mist forms, and the wand breaks loose. “Wait!” Sam lunges but it moves too quick. It sniffs at Dean.

“Leave him alone!” Sam barks.

And the wand backs off.

“Well that’s neat.” Dean sticks out a finger. “Hey, buddy.” He scratches the handle, gets a wiggle in response.

Sam… needs a minute. “How are you being so cool about this?”

Dean shrugs. “You always wanted a pet, and this guy?” Sword-fights with his pinky. “Ain’t gonna eat or shit or shed… Aaand, I bet he can help us on cases.”

“You’re calling it ‘he.’”

“So?” Dean stands. Drags Sam out of his chair. Wand drops, snuffles around their ankles. Dean tucks hair behind Sam’s ear. “I figure, you’da spoke up if you thought it was dangerous.”

“Well, yeah…”

“And he seems… I dunno, friendly.”

“Says you,” Sam mutters, and “Hey!” when the wand smacks his leg.

Dean snickers. “Tell me everything. Then we’ll figure out what to do. Sound good?”

Sam grabs the wand. Feels it tremble but it doesn’t fight. “Sure.”

 

*

“But he listens to you.” Dean tips his chair back, tracks the wand as it pokes and sniffs around the library.

“No…” Sam shakes his head. “I mean. Not before today.”

Front legs of Dean’s chair thunk the floor. “Well try it now.”

Sam tries, “Hey-uh, wand. Come over here.” Mist marks a lazy trail to the table.

“Dude. You can’t call him _wand_.”

“You got a better idea?”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe he’s already got a name. You tried asking?”

Sam conjures his frostiest stare.

“You know, like, ‘knock once for yes’ or some shit.” Dean leans on his elbows. “Come on.”

Sam eyes the wand. “Can you do that? Tap once for yes and twice for no?”

_tap-tap_

“Uh…”

Dean snickers.

“Okaayy. How about… tap once for no.”

_tap-tap_

“Wait.” Sam didn’t think this through. “Was that a yes or a no?”

_tap-tap_

“Goddammit.”

“Kind of a smartass, ain’t he?” Dean grins.

Sam sighs.

“I say we call him Woody.”

_tap-tap-t-t-tap-tap_

“You like that?” Dean asks, tickles the wand and it vibrates. “Woody?”

_tap-tap_

_tap-tap_

_tap-tap_

“I think we got a winner, Sammy.”

Sam groans. Buries his face in his hands.

“Hey!” Dean says. “Can you help us find Jack?”

It zips for the War Room. Dean spreads palms: _See?_ He jumps up to follow; Sam trudges behind. Woody— _dammit_ —the wand—skitters over the table, stops a ways south of Kansas City.

“That’s the middle of nowhere,” Sam gripes.

_tap-tap_

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dean drags out a modern map. “Naw, dude. Check it out. S’where Metatron stashed Cas’s grace.”

_tap-tap_

“Good Woody!” Dean beams.

“Seriously?”

“Positive reinforcement, Sam. Y’should try it.”

Sam rolls eyes. “So… You wanna move on this, or what?”

“We’ve rolled on less,” which… Dean’s not wrong.

“I’ll get the gear.” Sam takes off for his room.

And Dean: “Now I’ma let you ride in my car, little fella, but you gotta behave.”

_tap-tap_

“No buggin the driver and no lip about the music.”

_tap-tap_

Sam sighs.


	3. Acts

Forty-ish librarian squints up, over the frame of her square black glasses.

Dean pours on the charm. “Kid’s not in trouble,” sideways smile. “He’s a witness, got him some real bad dudes on his trail.”

Which is not a lie. They’ve had to put down a half-dozen demons and banish an angel crew since they got to town.

She sizes them up. “You just missed him.” Hands back the photo they pulled from a motel security cam. “Asked about some other guy. Weird name.”

“Castiel?” Sam asks.

“Yeah that sounds right.” She nods.

“And have you seen _him_? Castiel?” Sam pulls up a cell phone picture.

“Nope. Same as I told the other guy.” She tilts her head. “Shame, though. He’s kinda cute.”

Dean snorts. Sam thanks her and they turn to go.

“Hey-uh, agents?” Tight-mouthed. “These bad dudes. Should I be worried?”

“Nah,” Dean reassures her. “Jack didn’t find who he’s lookin for. He’ll move on and so will they.”

Sam’s not so confident. Angels won’t hurt her, he thinks, as long as she cooperates. But if more of Lucifer’s guys show up… “I’ll tell you what,” he says. “We’ll call the KC field office, get you a detail.”

“No thank you.” Firm. “My brother’s a deputy. I’ll get my own detail.”

Dean grins, edge of flirty. “Fair enough.” When they get outside, “You thinkin Dave? He’s still in KC, right?”

“Yup.” Sam’s already pulled up his contacts.

“And he’s ganked more angels than just about anyone.”

“Other than us.”

“Obviously.”

Sam dials. “You mind hanging around til he gets here?”

“I’m cool with that.” Dean nods at a diner across the street. “We’ll grab breakfast, keep an eye on her, huh?”

“Works for me.” And into his phone, “Hey, Dave.”

 

*

Back in the car, the wand bangs in the glove box.

“Hey, Woody.” Dean lets it out. “You miss us?”

 _tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap_ on the dash.

“Patience, pal. He was here but he’s gone. You did good though.”

_tap-tap-tap_

“Wand—” Sam starts.

Dean glares.

Sam flat-eyes. “Woody.”

_tap-tap_

Sam shakes his head. “Where to next?”

Woody— _fuck it_ —zips under the seat. Rustling, digging through maps. Smacks one out.

“Illinois?” Dean asks.

_tap-tap_

“So he’s got wings, that’s—”

“Terrifying.” Dean breaks in.

“—good to know,” Sam finishes.

“Makes him harder to hunt; that’s for sure.” Dean opens the map. “Whatcha got, Wood?”

_tap-tap_

“Pontiac,” Sam says.

Dean starts the engine.

 

*

Dean turns down a quiet street. Mid-century houses, manicured lawns. Old Novak place has a Coldwell Banker sign and a guy perched on the stoop. Sandy blond head lays across forearms wrapped around bent knees. “Is that him?”

Woody taps the dash and Sam says, “Yeah. Looks like.”

Dean parks. “You wanna take point on this? Least he’s seen you before.”

Sam nods. Woody hides in the glove box. Dean hauls up the weapons bag and pulls out angel blades.

“Dude.”

“He’s the spawn of Satan, Sam. I ain’t takin no chances.”

“And I don’t see how coming in heavy’s gonna make him more cooperative.”

Dean shrugs. Slips a blade in his jacket.

Sam climbs out. Creeps toward the porch like he’s stalking a skittish horse. “Hey-uh. Jack?”

Kid’s head jerks up, flash of yellow. “Sam, right?” Deep sigh. “You here to kill me?”

Dean goes tense at Sam’s shoulder. Growls, “You gonna give us a reason to?”

Sam elbows him. “Just here to talk.”

Jack squints. Disbelieving. “Everyone else seems to want me dead.” Voice cracks and he swallows. “Except my father.”

“You mean—” Sam can still hear that laugh, screams in Enochian, clang of the Cage, “Lucifer.”

“What?” Jack curls his nose. “No.” He looks at the house. “Castiel is my father. My mother said he’d protect me.”

“Cas is alive, then,” Dean says. “You’re sure.”

Jack huddles back in on himself. “I don’t know, I… I resurrected him, he said. Then some angels came after us and he… did something, with his blood and I was all alone. So now—”

“You’re looking for him.” Blaine Missouri. Pontiac. Sam puts it together. “You can… track his grace somehow. Or, traces of it?”

Jack shrugs. “He hasn’t been anyplace I’ve sensed him.” Shakes his head. “I don’t think he’s been here in a long time.”

“No shit.”

“Dean…” Sam shoots him a look. “Jack, why don’t you come with us? We want to find Cas too. We can—”

“Keep an eye on you,” Dean mutters.

Sam kicks his ankle. “Work together. Set up a tracking spell, or…” _Cas, where are you? Why won’t you answer my prayers?_

Jack unfolds and inches toward them. “You’d really help me.” Head tilts.

Sam smiles. Kid really does kind of favor Cas. “Yeah, Jack. That’s our job.”

Huff of breath says Dean’s not fully on board, but, “C’mon kid.” Nods at the car. “Somebody’s gotta teach y’about good tunes.”

“Tunes?” Jack falls in behind Sam.

Dean brings up the rear. “Yeah. Y’know, Zeppelin, AC/DC, Rolling Stones?”

Sam opens the back door.

Jack slides in. “Rolling stones. Make music.”

Dean’s face shutters. “Not like, actual rolling—you know what, forget it. Learn on the road.” Wide-eyed look at Sam says, _Yeah, he’s Cas’s kid all right_.

They don’t make it three blocks, and Sam’s cell rings.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Cas?” Sam hits the speaker.

“You have Jack.”

Dean swats, tries to swipe the phone.

Sam shields it against the window. “I wouldn’t say we _have_ him. He’s—”

“Where are you, you feathery fuck?” Dean yells. “We’ve been—”

Sam backhands him.

Cas says, “—outside Whitefish. I’ve warded Jack against Heaven and Hell, which allows me—”

“You’re a diversion.”

“Yes.”

Pressure change, whisper of wings and—

“Dammit!” Dean pulls over.

Jack’s gone.

“Sam, I have to go.” And the line falls quiet.

 _tap-tap_ from the glove box. Sam lets Woody out to snoop around the backseat.

Dean’s head falls back. “Well that went well.” Woody floats to his shoulder. Pats his cheek. “Thanks, dude.”

Sam rubs his eyes. “You know, we haven’t slept in like, thirty hours. Can we just—”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “Even those two can’t start too much shit from Rufus’s.”

Woody worms his way inside Sam’s coat, nests in his pocket. Dean drives past the Astoria, pulls in a Super 8.

“I’ll check us in.” Dean drags Sam by the lapels into a kiss.

Woody shakes and Sam does too. Door creaks and Dean climbs out. Sam can’t drag his eyes away, which—isn’t new. Dean draws eyes everywhere they go, and those people don’t even know him. Haven’t seen him grin like a little kid over chili fries or beer-can basketball. Never heard him scream in his sleep and laugh it off over breakfast. Couldn’t imagine him, face-to-face with God’s indifference, broken heart on his sleeve.

Sam watches him lay that panty-dropping smile on the heavyset dark-haired desk attendant. She squints like he’s full of shit, says something and his head falls back. They laugh.

Same old Dean. Still flirting with clerks and waitresses. Crowding Sam at his laptop. Leaning against him, witnesses’ doorsteps. Putting his hands all over Sam—big difference now is no pretense of checking for injuries. No veiled shame. Dean sticks his head out the double doors, flashes a key and cocks his chin. Sam hustles after him.

Woody inspects the room while Dean lays wards and Sam scrubs up. Steps out of the bathroom to find Dean stuffing a towel in a dresser drawer.

“You’re gonna be cool, right?”

Woody _tap-taps_ , somehow solemnly. Roots around in the drawer, gets comfortable, and bangs it shut.

Dean nods at a bed. “Gonna get that warm for me?” Hands slide around Sam’s waist and lips trace his jaw.

Sam slips away, digs in his bag for the condoms and lube he’s been packing around the past week. Plunks them on the nightstand, turns back the sheets. Grins. “For the morning.”

Dean groans. Tongue runs out and he bails for the bathroom. Sam’s asleep so fast he barely registers Dean crawl in with him, fold him up in still-damp arms and legs.

 

*

“Sammy?”

Soaking wet. Sheets twisted, weight above him.

“Sam, wake up.”

Unholy racket from the dresser.

Sam’s head pounds. “Dean?”

“You had a nightmare, man, kinda freakin me out.”

Sam breathes. Pinches the bridge of his nose. _Shit_. “I don’t… think it was a nightmare.”

“Well it wasn’t the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. Y’bout launched me outta bed.”

“I-uh…” Sam sits up, “think it was a vision.”

Tense. “Come on.”

Sam rubs his temples. “I saw… Jack? There was, a field, and… Kelly…” Goosebumps. “Her eyes…” Drawer trundles open and Woody hovers. “Did you do this?”

_tap-tap_

Sam throws his hands up. “I still don’t know what that means.”

Woody drifts in, orbits Sam. Nudges his forehead and darts for the drawer, trembles above it.

Dean throws off covers and goes for the bags. “Drink.” Tosses a bottle of water. “Take.” Bottle of pills. Creak of the mattress where he sits, knee hooked toward Sam. “What makes you think,” Dean wiggles fingers. “Y’know.”

“I know where it happens?”

Dean sticks his chin out: _Go on_.

“Jasper, Wyoming.”

_tap-tap_

“Guess we should load up then. I got the better part of four hours. You nap, take over drivin later?”

“You wanna check it out.” Sam shakes a little, sure Dean’s gonna flip.

“Can’t hurt.” Dean grabs Sam’s hand. “I ain’t gotta like it, workin a lead like this, but… We gotta find him, right?”

“Yeah.” Sam rolls out. Headache easing even without the pills. “Dean. You oughta know, this time is different.”

Dean shows palms.

“It doesn’t feel—”

“Evil?”

“External.” Sam shakes his head. “Does that even make sense?”

“Honestly? No.” Dean rounds the bed. “But… I know you ain’t… y’know.”

“No!”

Hand behind Sam’s neck. “And, I know this wand Rowena left you… I dunno.” Woody taps on the dresser. “Y’always were a freak.”

“Dude.”

“But you’re my freak, okay?” Lips brush dry. “Come on, Carnac.” Dean pats Sam’s chest. “You too, Needle.” Points at Woody and scoops his jeans off the floor. Woody dashes for a duffel and roots in an outside pocket. “Good boy.”

Sam’s shoulders loosen a notch.

 

*

Dean’s phone wakes him up east of the Quad Cities. “Cas?”

Sam sits up, curls toward the front.

“Whaddaya mean, gone?”

“Put him on speaker.”

Dean hits the button.

“—called out for his mother in his sleep, then disappeared.”

“He ditched you.” Dean accelerates. Road’s deserted anyway.

“That’s one way to put it, yes.” Testy.

“Cas.” Sam leans in closer. “I think he might’ve seen Asmodeus, in his dream.” Stray thought of Azazel, all those years ago.

“Asmodeus,” Cas says. “The Many-Faced Prince, that’s plausible.”

“I think he wants Jack to open a Devil’s Gate.”

“We’re headed for Jasper, Wyoming,” Dean breaks in. “Dad’s journal—”

“Yes. That Gate holds back the shedim. I’ll meet you there.” A beep. Dean’s phone goes quiet.

“We gotta work on his phone manners,” Dean gripes.

“I’ll add it to the list.” Sam takes advantage of his spot, noses behind Dean’s ear.

Shiver. “You’re gonna have to knock that off, if we’re gonna…” Eyes in the rearview. “Go back to sleep, huh?”

Sam nods. Stretches what he can across the backseat. Knees hooked, head on his coat. Forearm over his eyes. Nods off thinking about Jack, losing his mom before he ever knew her. Thinks about what he’d give to see his own mom again…

 

*

Sam squints against the afternoon sun. Just like he dreamed it: tall grass, blue skies, wispy clouds. Two figures in the field. Sam runs, Cas beside him and Dean a pace ahead, gun drawn.

Jack looks up; eyes blaze yellow. “Father! I’m doing it!”

Rip in the earth and black claws, mottled skin. Skeletal hands stretch upward.

“Jack!” Sam yells, “you have to stop!”

“Don’t listen to them, sweetie. Don’t lose focus.” Kelly’s eyes flash.

“That’s not your mother!” Cas shouts. “Look at it!”

Jack’s head jerks back and forth. “I don’t—”

“Ah, screw this,” Dean mutters and fires. Kelly flickers.

“Howdy boys.” Affected drawl, some kind of, white-suit televangelist. Gray-haired, scarred and bearded. Lifts a hand and Sam starts choking. Drops to his knees and grabs for Dean.

Cas struggles forward. “Jack, please.”

“No!” Jack cries and the wind shifts. Gnarled arms draw back underground. Gate re-seals. “You’re hurting them!” He turns on Asmodeus, sticks out a hand—

The demon shimmers out.

Sam coughs, gulps down desperate lungfuls. Cas goes for the kid and Dean turns back.

“Hey, you all right?” Rough.

Sam rasps, “Been better. You?”

“Same.”

They drag each other up.

Cas lays hands on Jack’s shoulders. “You frightened me, taking off like that.”

“What… _was_ that?” Jack asks.

“Demons,” Dean barks. “Pretty nasty ones too.”

“So those weren’t… soldiers of God? In the hole?” Wide eyes, Jack’s human eyes, scared and confused.

“No, kid,” Dean jerks his chin. “Those were ah—you know what, never mind. We should…” Head tips back toward the car.

“Come to the Bunker, both of you,” Sam pleads. “It’s our best chance, keep you safe.”

Cas nods. “We can trust them, Jack. Sam and Dean are—”

“Family.” Sam gives Jack’s arm a squeeze.

Jack smiles.


	4. Exodus

“Hey, Dave.” Sam puts him on speakerphone. “What’s up?”

“Just checkin in,” Dave says. “I got your boys down here in Sikeston huntin a rawhead.”

“Hate those sons of bitches.” Dean pulls off on the narrow shoulder.

“I figure the way this kid pops lightbulbs all the time…”

“That makes a ton of sense.” Sam says.

“He’s doin great so far. Got instincts.”

Dean cuts the engine. “I mean, yeah. Kid’s helpful. Just, watch Cas. Don’t let him wander off.” Pops in a tape.

Dave laughs. “I reckon we’ll have this sucker bagged by tomorrow, latest.”

“Sounds good.” And, “Hey. We sure appreciate this. Needed a break from babysitting, you know?”

“You’re goddamn right,” Dean grunts.

Sam shoots him a look. “Just, keep us posted, okay? Call if you hit a snag.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, man.” Sam hits _END_ , pockets the phone.

Doors slam. Highway 281 isn’t busy this time of day, but it’s not deserted. Bright afternoon, Sam wonders if he shouldn’t have brought sunscreen. He fishes a pair of glass vials from his pocket.

“This is gonna taste like ass, isn’t it?”

“That’s your concern?”

“Among many, now that you’re asking. Will we be able to see each other? How long does it last? What if some Good Samaritan gets the cops out here snoopin around?”

“Yes, six hours, hide in the woods. We’ve been over this. You good?”

Dean scowls, but he clinks and it’s down the hatch. Sam intones, “ _Falaich mi bho shùilean aineolach_.”

He doesn’t feel invisible.

“Did it work?” Dean looks in the side-view. “Whoa dude, it totally worked!”

“I told you, nonbeliever.” Sam’s phone shows the mirror moving. Sam sees Dean moving it. “Take off your clothes.”

“Sammy. How bout some romance here? Show a little class.”

“I wanna check something.”

Dean puffs up but strips his flannel. Tosses it in the backseat.

“Okay! Once you let it go, the camera could see it. Pick it back up.”

Dean does.

“Still visible.” Sam stows his phone in a pocket. “Cool. Cause that means—”

“We can _Invisible Man_ it outta here if your spell don’t wear off.”

“It’ll wear off!” Sam says, and, “ _Facietis iudicia_.” Flick of his hand and Dean’s belt comes undone.

“Oh-whoa-hey.” Dean shields his crotch. “You keep your whammy in your pants.”

Sam will not laugh. He will not laugh.

“No powers,” Dean sulks.

Sam snorts. Gets at Dean’s fly with his fingers. Sam’s belt opens on its own. Shoes come unlaced.

“You’re cheating,” into his mouth.

Sam peels Dean’s pants to his knees, gives a little shove. Dean stumbles and Sam backs him up against the car door. Strips to the waist in one move, Dean licks lips. Kicks off his boots and jeans and Sam follows. Last to go is Dean’s Henley. Pale freckled skin, fine hairs glow in the sun. Dean’s tattoo…

“I miss mine.” Sam sketches the flames.

“Why ain’t you had it replaced?”

“Because, if mine’s new,” Sam licks starlines, “it’s not the same.”

Dean arches. “What if we both got new ones? Upgrades. Y’know, no, demons or angels—”

Sam runs with, “soul eaters…”

“…wicked witches. Hell, all fairies. Everything we know.”

“That’s serious mojo.”

“You like a challenge.”

“Seriously. You’d let me—”

“I ain’t sayin hold the needle!”

Sam’s lips scrunch. “I didn’t…” Exhale. “Let’s table this.” Sam kneels in the grass, road’s edge. Dean stares down, traces his face. Sam takes Dean in his mouth, half-hard and thickening. Dean lets out a breath. Sam bobs his head, tongue works and he curls a hand around. Mouth waters and he lets it run. Dean’s into messy.

“Sammy, you gotta…” Dean’s hips kick. Burst of salt and Sam grins up, nasty.

“I gotta what, Dean?” Long lick, nose in his balls.

Dean drags him up. Kisses and marches him around to the hood, hands on his ass and teeth at his jaw. Spins him. Bends him over. Sam’s kinda raw from the morning (and last night, and the day-before-yesterday). Still, Dean feels _good_ , careful and confident. Side of the road, Dean takes him apart like a blown engine. Chest sweats, slides on sun-warm steel and Sam’s thighs quake.

“That’s it Sammy,” Dean coaxes, “open up for me.”

Sam writhes, knees bang the bumper and Dean blankets him, mouths at his shoulder. Sam’s legs spread. Dean’s hard against him. Car’s suspension rocks and squeaks.

“…how long I wanted this?” Dean breathes on his skin. “Over this hood in broad daylight…whole world…”

Sam’s cock strains, jumps and leaks. Chrome sears against him and Dean inside him.

“You gonna take my dick little brother?” Dean pulls hair. “Give up that ass?” Sam arches back. Dean curls around him, rubs the slick tip of his dick. “Gonna wreck my paint job, ain’tcha, blow all over it.”

Rattle-moan shakes the whole car. Dean backs off. Breeze and goosebumps in his absence. Dean rubs Sam’s back, down his sides. Thumbs spread wide and Sam shoves back, begs without a word.

Dean pushes in him, slick and warm and _God_ , so full. Hips rock, agonizing slow and sparks race up Sam’s spine, down to his toes. _More, more_ —

And Dean laughs. “Patience, Sammy.” Smacks his ass, not hard; Sam about comes right there. “Aw fuck,” and a halting thrust and Sam’s fist bangs the metal.

“Dean for fuck’s sake, c’mon—”

All it takes. Dean’s strong hands lift him, tilt him and drag him flush against Dean’s hips. Sam rolls, moves the pressure in him, head lifts.

Dean starts talking. “So hot, Sammy, Goddamn, so sweet… long legs around me, big hands on me, fuckin shit, Sam, lay of my life, so tight and hungry…”

Cars blow by. Big rig shakes them so bad Dean slips out. Sam’s forehead smacks the hood, asshole and both fists clenching.

“You still good?”

Sam flips. Tows his brother down. Breathes in his mouth, “Perfect.”

Kissing. Takes a second, getting Dean back in him, fucking right up into his prostate and Sam howls with it. Bucks and thrashes. Slap of skin and grunted names. Sam’s gone, all but his brother moving in him falls away and all his muscles seize. _Dean, Dean, Dean,_ last word he knows and wet heat spreads between them, Dean’s hand works him. Sam grabs on, nails in Dean’s shoulders. Tears well up and he squirms.

“Sammy?” Dean’s stone still.

Sam blinks. Breathes in sweat and come and Dean.

“You okay?” Bright eyes brim concerned.

Sam nods, flushes red.

“You wanna stop?”

“No!” Sam grunts. Runs a hand across Dean’s cheek, behind his ear. “Want you to come in me.”

Dean groans.

Sam hooks hands behind his knees, rolls up. “Fuck me, Dean, c’mon. Gimme all of you.”

Dean gets Sam around the hips and nails him, head thrown back and sweat all down his chest. Ab muscles bunch and roll and biceps strain and Sam’s rag-limp. Takes what Dean gives. Balls slap his ass and Sam’s skin sticks and squeaks against the metal. Dean gets louder, faster, stroke by stroke and Sam clamps down, rumbles encouragement.

Dean roars, rhythm fails and Sam rolls, does his best to wring Dean dry. Dean falls between his legs and Sam surrounds him, pets his back and murmurs in his hair. Holds Dean inside him, long as he can through stuttery thrusts. Breathing slows. Finally, Dean slips free.

“Fuckin _shit,_ Sam, that was…”

Sam laughs. “Yeah it was.”

Dean shoves off in a storm of cracking joints and cuss words. Offers a hand and hauls Sam up, into a kiss. Sunshine, sweat, and gentle breeze, Sam’s hot and cold all over.

“I am _gross_ ,” Dean gripes, “and you’re worse.”

He’s not wrong. “I’ll get the towels.” Wet slide between Sam’s thighs. Dick tries to fill again. “One for me,” over Sam’s arm, “and one for you,” arcs through the air, “and one for the car.” Chamois, in fact.

Dean squints, tees up something bitchy but Sam cuts him off.

“Here.” Hands over a sun-warmed gallon of water.

Dean dumps it down the hood. “Still gonna have to wax her again.”

“Which you do, every week, regardless.” Sam soaks one end of his towel, rubs down. Dean watches. “Like what you see, huh?” Mimics a Dean-wink.

Dean rolls eyes and the Stones’ Wild Horses drifts out low from the stereo. Sam snaps his towel at his brother and gets a yelp. Lets Dean retaliate.

“Now what?” Dean asks. “We got—how much time?”

“Lots,” Sam says. “Four hours, easy.”

“Dammit.”

“Dammit?”

“M’hungry.”

Sam grins. “Pop the trunk.” On popcorn, pretzels, beef jerky, beer. Three kinds of pie.

“Sammy, I—” Teeth click. “You rock, dude.”

“Yes I do.”

Sam drags out a blanket, spreads it across the roadside grass. Naked in the setting sun.

“We coulda had this years ago,” Dean says, mouthful of pie.

And Sam agrees, but, “Well, we’ve got it now.”

“Hell yeah.” Dean knocks back a swig of beer, pulls Sam in, drags him down. Tangle of arms and legs and tongues under the sky.

 

*

Dean glares at the complex sigil Sam paints in his blood. “You’re sure you wanna do this.” Woody hides behind him, peeks out over his shoulder.

“Worst-case, she’s not there, and the spell fails.”

“You say that’s the worst-case. What if this opens into a… a battle royale?”

“Do they have those in Purgatory?”

“Probably!”

“We do kinda owe her.”

“I guess…”

“But we gotta decide now. It’ll be years til another eclipse.”

Deep sigh. “Go on. I’m gonna wait outside.” Dean takes off.

“You can go too,” Sam says, and Woody dashes after him.

Sam chants, custom incantations. Combination of Cas’s portal spell and a summoning. Blood sparks orange, sigil glows and the wall peels back as the sky outside goes dark. Wind whips Sam’s hair, dust stings his eyes. Angel blade at the ready, he steps through. Cloying stench of blood and death. Gray skies, towering trees.

Rowena shimmers in, wearing the rags of a sequined gown. Torn hem, midriff exposed, hair matted and brown in a braid. Kinda looks like the cavegirl from _Shawshank Redemption_.

“Hey, Rowena.”

“Samuel.” She circles him. “To what do I owe this surprise?” Mistrusting.

Sam gets that. He could be… all kinds of things around here. “I found your wand.”

“Aye, so it would seem,” She moves in closer.

“And, well… I’ve come to bust you out.” The portal tugs at him.

“Splendid. Let’s be off.” Rowena extends a hand.

Sam takes it, but, “Listen. You won’t have a body.”

“I beg your—”

“Lucifer did a real number on you, and you’re not possessing—”

“Well this is a bloody botched rescue, innit?”

Sam squeezes her hand. “Rowena. I figured out from your notes how to fix the Veil. It’s an express pass upstairs.”

“To Heaven?” Rowena’s eyes shine. She dabs her face.

Sam tugs at her. Not a lot of time. “I hear it’s boring up there, but…”

Deep breath. “Well… what are we waitin for?”

Sam leads her to the portal, feels her hand collapse as they cross. Blue-white light makes him shield his eyes as it swirls and rises, disappears. Sam looks through the window; sun slides out from behind the moon and the wall seals up.

“So long, Rowena,” Sam says. “Thank you.”

 

*

Dean leans on the car, hands Sam a beer. “Did it work?”

“Like magic,” Sam drinks.

Dean rolls eyes. “So now what? I say we hit Tahoe, see if Woody can help us—”

Sam interrupts with a kiss. “No.”

Dean shrugs. “Okay then, what?”

Sam holds Dean’s gaze. “I’m hittin the books.”

“Geek.”

Sam charges on, “We figured out how to break open one parallel world. I say we go after Mom next.”

“Sam, Mom’s gone.”

“Dean—”

“Lucifer killed her. Soon as he realized we trapped his ass, he killed her; you know he did.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sam.”

“I…” Sam swallows, “know how his mind works. He knows, Hell or high water, we don’t give up on family.”

“Come on, man.”

“Which makes her his best shot to get back here. Back to his kid.”

Dean hmphs.

“So as long as she’s still alive, he’s got a bargaining chip.”

Dean rubs his mouth. Runs through a half-dozen mugs before, “Sammy,” he sticks out his bottleneck. “I like your style.”

Sam clinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Please go here](https://sakurinn.tumblr.com/post/167708397437/heres-my-art-entry-for-the-spn-reverse-bang-2017) to leave love for sakurinn's lovely and inspirational artwork!


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